


Letters To No One

by jestayork



Series: Oneshots [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Family Dynamic, Gen, Letters, Manberg, Memory Loss, Open Ending, because i am incapable of writing a self-contained oneshot, manburg, minecraft au, post wilbur arg, pre dreamsmp, sbi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jestayork/pseuds/jestayork
Summary: Phil's content in being alone in his worldUntil he finds a mailbox, run down in the middle of a forest
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036803
Comments: 14
Kudos: 167





	Letters To No One

**Author's Note:**

> oneshots hard

Phil has been alone for _a very long time_. Hardcore is inherently an isolating life to live, since most people can't really trust others to not stab them in the back when they're not looking.  
  
He finds the loneliness quite peaceful.  
  
He doesn't have to worry about what anyone else is doing, and instead can spend his hours fishing and exploring. His house has advanced past "humble", but holds a simple charm as it sits at the edge of the water, slowly filling up with assorted trophies from his wanderings.  
  
Its during one of his trips to a forest, far off into the south-east where he's hardly been before, when he finds something.  
  
Sitting in the middle of the woods, shaded by dappled light and slightly overgrown, is a mailbox.  
  
He pulls out his sword. A mailbox means a house, doesn't it? His world doesn't seem as secure as he had thought, if there's been someone here for so long that the mailbox is spotted with rust.  
  
There's the slightest hint of a path beneath his feet. He kicks at the ground softly, dislodging an ancient pebble under the overgrown grass. Maybe this is the last remains of a previous occupant of this world.  
  
He adjusts his hat, following the vague path. He adjusts his grip on his weapon, prepared to use the diamond weapon if anyone appears.  
  
But there's no one.  
  
There's nothing. The path just fades away, interrupted by a large, decade or so old tree. Stepping around it, there isn't any evidence of where the rest of the crooked trail is.  
  
A dead end, still concerning.  
  
"Who were you?" He asks the tree, the only company he has. He should get a dog.  
  
The only answer is the rustle of leaves in the wind. Birds chatter to each other in the canopy.  
  
He turns around, returning to the mailbox. Now that he's tried to scout out the area, he feels secure enough to investigate it.  
  
All things considered, it's not in terrible shape. It still looks like it's probably waterproof. A rounded piece of metal mounted on a piece of wood, that when he taps with the flat of his sword, is relatively sturdy.  
  
With one last glance around the small clearing, he swaps his sword to his other hand, grabbing onto the door to pull it down. The hinges are rusted, so it opens slowly and then all of a sudden, squeaking loudly. A bird sitting on a branch above his head startles and flies away.  
  
Inside, there's… a letter.  
  
Dodging around the web, he reaches into the box and pulls it out. Despite the age of the box, the letter looks new, the envelope still a clean white. There isn't any address on it, and when he turns it over, no return address. Just a stamp in the top corner, approved by a Hub post office.  
  
How did _this_ get here?  
  
_Why_ is it here, out in the middle of nowhere?  
  
With nothing else to do, he opens it. He cringes a bit when peeling the seal open, tearing through half of the envelope. He's never been particularly good at this.  
  
Unfolding the letter, he's greeted by messy, almost unreadable handwriting.  
  
_There's a myth, I've heard, that if you mail an empty letter, it will find the right person to read it. I can't say that I believe that kind of thing, but I honestly need to get some things off my chest and this is a good excuse to do it._  
  
What? Phil's never heard of something like that, but it fits into the style of shit Hub-dwellers come up with.  
  
A small part of him reminds him that if the letter made it _here_ , then there's probably some truth to it.  
  
The other part of him reminds him that he's not a therapist for this person's issues.  
  
He continues reading.  
  
_My problem is I don't remember anything about myself. People don't think anything of it because, apparently, it's normal after dying in hardcore. But I know that's not the case! I know I've never lived or died in hardcore.  
There's this man I've seen a couple of times, and I can tell he's scared of me, and the few times I've managed to get him to talk to me, he treats me like I _should _know what's going on. His name is Jack, and he doesn't like me, but he hasn't told me why. I feel so fucking helpless, I can't do anything. Usually this is something you'd ask your family about, but I don't know if I even have one._  
  
The letter ends on that note, without a name or goodbye. It feels a bit abrupt. Not really written to ever be read.  
  
  
But here Phil is, standing in the middle of nowhere, letter in his hands.  
  
  
  
  
He's not some kind of fucking advice columnist, but this person seems like they need help from _someone_ , and Phil can't really stop himself from writing back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sitting at his desk, he taps his pen against the wood of the table in frustration. Zombies groan outside. He tries to tune them out as he thinks.  
  
What does he even say? _Hi, I found your letter, I felt obligated to reply_?  
  
Eventually, he writes a bit of a cookie cutter response, encouraging this person to explore what they enjoy, try things out like art, music, building, fighting.  
  
Phil's been through this before, having died in hardcore a few months ago. Relearning everything about yourself is rough. He knows that there's things that he's forgotten for good, with no way to rediscover. He wonders, like this person is, whether he has a family.  
  
Logically, he has to, but what motivated him to start living alone in hardcore in the first place?  
…He has no way of remembering.  
  
He does his best to sound comforting as he rights, but not belittling.  
  
After a few moments of hesitation, he signs off the letter with a hardcore heart.  
He seals it in an envelope, slaps a stamp on it.  
  
  
The next morning, he puts his letter in that old mailbox. He's not really sure how weird superstition magic works, but this seems like the right thing to do.  
  
  
  
He checks the day after, and finds that his letter has vanished.  
  
Is it pure magic, or is there an invisible, all-knowing mailman? He doesn't really like either option.  
  
  
  
  
There isn’t a response for a long time. The box is pretty far from his home, so he doesn't bother checking every morning.  
  
The day that he opens the mailbox and finds a new letter, there's flowers growing at his feet, surviving despite the lack of sunlight that reaches the forest floor. Bees dance around the yellow petals.  
  
He can't spot any evidence of anyone else being here. The grass doesn't look trodden on, and the mailbox door was at the same almost-shut state he left it in. He doesn't really want to just give in and believe that it's magic, though, he needs to keep his guard up if there really is a mailman and that mailman decides they want to murder him.  
  
He opens this envelope more carefully than the last one, almost managing to not tear it.  
  
The handwriting is the same, though a bit more carefully written. Much easier to read than the emotional scrawl of the first letter.  
  
_I didn't expect my letter to actually reach anyone. Thanks anyway, for caring about my issues, whoever you are.  
  
I met this guy who says I'm his brother. I'm not so sure about it, since we don't really look anything like each other, and he's been really awkward. I'm pretty sure I'd act more sure about it, if I was in his place.  
I was trying to do what you suggested by joining a tournament, which is where I met him. Luckily he recognised me, because, it turns out, I don't have any idea how to fight. Techno's very good at fighting.  
  
Techno says I have another brother, but he's busy and I haven't been able to meet him. Everything seems like it might be fine.  
  
Thanks._  
  
Phil can't help the smile forming on his face. He's glad for this guy, getting reunited with his family against all the odds.  
  
  
For some reason, Phil becomes painfully aware of how empty his home is.  
  
( _Empty rooms made for guests that will never show up, chairs at the table that have never been used -_ )  
  
The quiet of his house isn't so calming anymore.  
  
  
  
  
He checks the mailbox every day.  
  
  
  
  
By the time a new letter appears, the wildflowers have receded back into the soil for winter and most of the trees are more than halfway through shedding their leaves.  
  
This envelope, rather than having a simple postage stamp, is sealed with wax.  
  
That's pretentious, Phil thinks to himself as he tries to peel the circle of wax off. His soul dies a little when the wax comes off with a shred of paper still attached to it. He might keep it anyway. It's stamped with a nice design - a crown, though the carving of the stamp looks a bit amateurish, definitely not belonging to an actual king.  
  
Something else to add to his collection of trophies that he doesn't have anyone to show to.  
  
(He's not bothered by his isolation at all. Seriously.)  
  
The handwriting is only marginally neater than the other letters, but he can tell it's a different person writing to him. The paper is actually the right size for the envelope, made for this purpose rather than just being a page torn out of a scrappy book.  
  
_Wilbur told me about you. He never used to be the kind of person to bother trying urban legends.  
That's something that I need to learn about this new-Wilbur, while he learns it about himself. I don't know if this letter will reach you, but since I'm trying to reach the same person Wilbur did, the magic should be able to figure out that you're the right person.  
  
I'm glad to find Wilbur again, don't get me wrong, but he's supposed to be the older brother, and he's just been another person to take care of. Everything has gotten so much harder after Dad disappeared. I know I'm overworking myself, but I need to keep my brothers alive and maintain my reputation. I'm supposed to be able to handle anything, and I'm undefeatable. If I slip up even once, I lose everything. Honestly, my title as number one is only a burden. I wish I had the courage to just let it go.  
  
I don't expect you to have any answers to my problems, but I heard you're good at listening._  
  
Autumn leaves crunch under Phil's boots as he walks home. What would he do, if he was in this guy's place? Presumably orphaned, with two brothers relying on him to earn a living?  
  
He's not sure he would be able to drop out of whatever competition this guy is in. He feels like he might have a title too, but he has no idea what it would be. But he knows that when you've worked for something for a very long time, it's nothing but painful to have to abandon it.  
  
Pretty shitty of these guys' dad to just leave them with nothing. At least they have each other.  
  
It's not great to be alone.  
  
  
Rereading the letters, it's pretty clear that the first two were from "Wilbur", while this one is from his brother, "Techno." He's not very good at resolving problems, but the brothers' soap opera of a life is something to think about in an otherwise monotonous life.  
  
Putting pen to paper, Phil writes pretty weak advice, not having any experience like Techno's, but he does his best to reassure him. He encourages Techno to be open with his brothers about his struggles, signing off with another hardcore heart.  
  
Is this all he really is? Is the only identity he holds in his empty, useless home?  
  
He feels like there's so much more that he's missing, just at the edge of his memory.  
  
  
  
He checks the mailbox every day.  
  
  
  
He's tempted to write his own sob-story letter and post it, but somehow he just _knows_ that it will be Wilbur or Techno who receive it, and he doesn't want to burden the boys with any of _his_ problems when they already have so many.  
  
It also doesn't feel quite right. He has the strange feeling that they _shouldn't_ know that he has problems, but he doesn't know why that would even matter. They're complete strangers.  
  
  
Snow is falling, the forest a beautiful, lifeless winter scene. He opens the mailbox, the metal stinging his hands with its cold, and he can't describe the feeling he has when he sees a new letter.  
  
He's felt disgustingly alone, the need to have contact with _anyone_ out there just eating away at him.  
  
Phil could always just leave his world and hang out in a Hubserver, but he doesn’t.  
  
  
This envelope doesn't even have a stamp. Like the others, it's blank, no address, no sender.  
  
He opens it, and feels faint pride when it doesn't tear at all.  
  
Hunching over the page slightly so that snow doesn't land on it, he reads.  
  
  
_Hello. Are you a real person, or some kind of mob? Wilbur told me you Listen. Nobody listens to me anymore. They think that I'm just a kid, and don't really know what's best. That's not true - I'm a Big Man! I'm almost taller than Techno, which clearly makes me better and smarter than him. Techno isn't fun anymore. He's always so busy. He and Wilbur decided that we should move to a smaller server, try making food instead of buying it with Techno's winnings money. I don't like that, but they won't listen to me. I want to stay in the hub! I want to be with my friends!  
  
Everything would be Better if dad was here. If you ever meet a blond guy named Phil, can you please bring him home? I miss him. I miss the way things used to be. _  
  
Phil can hardly read the last line with how his hands are shaking.  
  
Is there a chance, however small, that this kid is talking about him? That there's been someone waiting for him to come home this entire time?  
  
Is this what he's been missing?  
  
  
Phil doesn't hesitate any longer. He shrugs his cloak off, shoving the letter into his pocket. He unfurls his wings, slamming them down to launch himself into the air. He flies, probably the fastest he ever has, to the portal to his world's Hub.  
  
He isn't even thinking when he lands and activates it.  
  
  
  
He doesn't want to be alone anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any thoughts, feedback or theories don't hesitate to comment!  
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://jestayork.tumblr.com/) if you like
> 
> Also, only a small percentage of my readers are subscribed. On every fic there's a subscribe button you can hit to get handy email notifications when it updates. You can also go to an author's profile and subscribe there, so if you're a fan of my work, consider subscribing so you don't miss my future works. It's free, _totally anonymous_ , and you can always unsubscribe later.
> 
> **Requests are open**


End file.
